XXX. Le cinq septembre.

XXX

The fifth of September.

The delay granted by the agent of the house of Thomson and French, at the moment when Morrel least expected it, appeared to the poor shipowner as one of those returns of good fortune which announce to a man that fate has at last grown weary of persecuting him. The same day, he told what had happened to him to his daughter, his wife, and Emmanuel, and a little hope, if not tranquillity, returned to the family. But unfortunately, Morrel had to deal not only with the house of Thomson and French, which had shown itself so accommodating toward him. As he had said, in business one has correspondents and not friends. When he thought deeply about it, he could not even understand this generous conduct of Messrs. Thomson and French toward him; he explained it to himself only by that intelligently selfish reflection which the house must have made: It is better to support a man who owes us nearly three hundred thousand francs, and to have those three hundred thousand francs at the end of three months, than to hasten his ruin and have six or eight percent of the capital.

Unfortunately, whether from hatred or blindness, all of Morrel's correspondents did not make the same reflection, and some even made the contrary one. The drafts drawn by Morrel were therefore presented at the cash desk with scrupulous rigor, and, thanks to the delay granted by the Englishman, were paid by Coclès at an open counter. Coclès thus continued to dwell in his fatal tranquillity. Only Mr. Morrel saw with terror that if he had had to repay, on the 15th, the fifty thousand francs to M. de Boville, and, on the 30th, the thirty-two thousand five hundred francs of drafts for which, as well as for the claim of the inspector of prisons, he had been given a delay, he was from that very month a ruined man.

The opinion of all the trade of Marseille was that, under the successive reverses which overwhelmed him, Morrel could not hold out. The astonishment was therefore great when he was seen to meet the end of the month with his ordinary exactitude. However, confidence did not thereby return to men's minds, and they unanimously postponed to the end of the next month the deposition of the bankrupt estate of the unfortunate shipowner.

The whole month passed in unheard-of efforts on the part of Morrel to gather all his resources. Formerly his paper, at whatever date, was taken with confidence, and even sought after. Morrel tried to negotiate paper at ninety days, and found the banks closed. Happily, Morrel himself had some collections on which he could count; these collections were made: Morrel thus found himself again in a position to meet his engagements when the end of July arrived.

Besides, the agent of the house of Thomson and French had not been seen again at Marseille; the day after or the day following his visit to Mr. Morrel he had disappeared: now, as he had had in Marseille relations only with the mayor, the inspector of prisons, and Mr. Morrel, his passage had left no other trace than the different memory which these three persons had preserved of him. As for the sailors of the Pharaon, it appears they had found some employment, for they had also disappeared.

Captain Gaumard, recovered from the indisposition which had detained him at Palma, returned in his turn. He hesitated to present himself at Mr. Morrel's: but the latter learned of his arrival, and went to find him himself. The worthy shipowner knew in advance, from Penelon's account, the courageous conduct the captain had maintained throughout that disaster, and it was he who tried to console him. He brought him the amount of his wages, which Captain Gaumard would not have dared to go and collect.

As he was descending the stairs, Mr. Morrel met Penelon who was going up. Penelon had, it appeared, made good use of his money, for he was entirely dressed in new clothes. On seeing his shipowner, the worthy helmsman appeared much embarrassed; he placed himself in the farthest corner of the landing, passed his quid alternately from left to right and from right to left, rolling his great startled eyes, and answered only with a timid pressure to the handshake which Mr. Morrel offered him with his usual cordiality. Mr. Morrel attributed Penelon's embarrassment to the elegance of his attire: it was evident that the brave fellow had not gone into such luxury on his own account; he was therefore already engaged no doubt aboard some other vessel, and his shame came from his not having, if one may so express it, worn mourning for the Pharaon any longer. Perhaps even he came to make known to Captain Gaumard his good fortune and to tell him of the offers of his new master.

"Brave fellows," said Morrel as he went away, "may your new master love you as I loved you, and be happier than I am!"

August passed in continually renewed attempts by Morrel to re-establish his former credit or to open a new one. On the 20th of August, it was known in Marseille that he had taken a place in the mail coach, and it was then said that it was for the end of the current month that the bankrupt estate was to be deposited, and that Morrel had gone away beforehand so as not to witness that cruel act, having delegated no doubt to his chief clerk Emmanuel and to his cashier Coclès. But, contrary to all predictions, when the 31st of August arrived, the cash desk opened as usual. Coclès appeared behind the grating, calm as the just man of Horace, examined with the same attention the paper presented to him, and, from the first to the last, paid the drafts with the same exactitude. There even came two repayments which Mr. Morrel had foreseen, and which Coclès paid with the same punctuality as the drafts which were personal to the shipowner. No one understood anything more of it, and they postponed, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the failure to the end of September.

On the 1st, Morrel arrived: he was awaited by all his family with great anxiety; from this trip to Paris was to arise his last means of salvation. Morrel had thought of Danglars, today a millionaire and formerly his debtor, since it was on Morrel's recommendation that Danglars had entered the service of the Spanish banker with whom his immense fortune had begun. Today Danglars, it was said, had six or eight millions of his own, unlimited credit. Danglars, without drawing a coin from his pocket, could save Morrel: he had only to guarantee a loan, and Morrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of Danglars; but there are instinctive repulsions which one cannot master, and Morrel had delayed as long as possible to have recourse to this supreme means. He had been right, for he had returned broken under the humiliation of a refusal.

Also, on his return, Morrel had uttered no complaint, pronounced no recrimination; he had embraced his wife and daughter in tears, had offered a friendly hand to Emmanuel, had shut himself up in his study on the second floor, and had asked for Coclès.

"This time," the two women had said to Emmanuel, "we are lost."

Then, in a short conference held between them, it had been agreed that Julie should write to her brother, garrisoned at Nîmes, to arrive instantly.

The poor women instinctively felt that they needed all their strength to sustain the blow which threatened them.

Besides, Maximilien Morrel, although scarcely twenty-two years old, already had a great influence over his father.

He was a firm and upright young man. At the moment when it had been a question of embracing a career, his father had not wished to impose a future upon him in advance and had consulted the tastes of the young Maximilien. The latter had then declared that he wished to follow the military career; he had accordingly made excellent studies, had entered the École Polytechnique by competition, and had come out of it as sub-lieutenant in the 53rd line. For a year he had held that rank, and had promise of being named lieutenant at the first opportunity. In the regiment, Maximilien Morrel was cited as the rigid observer, not only of all the obligations imposed on the soldier, but also of all the duties proposed to the man, and he was called only the Stoic. It goes without saying that many of those who gave him this epithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not even know what it meant.

It was this young man whom his mother and sister called to their aid to support them in the grave circumstance in which they felt they were about to find themselves.

They had not been mistaken as to the gravity of this circumstance, for, a moment after Mr. Morrel had entered his study with Coclès, Julie saw the latter come out, pale, trembling, and his face quite distraught.

She wished to question him as he passed near her; but the brave man, continuing to descend the stairs with a precipitancy unusual to him, contented himself with crying out as he raised his arms to heaven:

"Oh, miss! miss! what a dreadful misfortune! and who would ever have believed it!"

An instant after, Julie saw him come up again carrying two or three large ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of money.

Morrel consulted the ledgers, opened the portfolio, counted the money.

All his resources amounted to six or eight thousand francs, his collections up to the 5th to four or five thousand; which made, counting at the highest, an asset of fourteen thousand francs to meet a draft of two hundred eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs. There was not even the means of offering such a down payment.

However, when Morrel came down to dine, he appeared quite calm. This calm frightened the two women more than the deepest dejection could have done.

After dinner, Morrel had the habit of going out; he went to take his coffee at the Phocéens circle and to read the Sémaphore: that day he did not go out and went back up to his study.

As for Coclès, he appeared completely stupefied. During part of the day he had stayed in the courtyard, seated on a stone, his head bare, under a sun of thirty degrees.

Emmanuel tried to reassure the women, but he was ill at ease in speaking. The young man was too well acquainted with the affairs of the house not to feel that a great catastrophe weighed upon the Morrel family.

Night came: the two women had kept watch, hoping that on coming down from his study Morrel would enter their room; but they heard him pass before their door, lightening his step for fear no doubt of being called.

They listened; he went into his room and locked his door inside.

Mme Morrel sent her daughter to bed; then, half an hour after Julie had withdrawn, she rose, took off her shoes and slipped into the corridor, to see through the keyhole what her husband was doing.

In the corridor, she perceived a shadow which drew back: it was Julie, who, uneasy herself, had preceded her mother.

The young girl went to Mme Morrel.

"He is writing," she said.

The two women had understood each other without speaking.

Mme Morrel bent down to the level of the keyhole. Indeed, Morrel was writing; but, what her daughter had not noticed, Mme Morrel noticed, namely, that her husband was writing on stamped paper.

This terrible idea came to her, that he was making his will; she shuddered in all her limbs, and yet she had the strength to say nothing.

The next day, Mr. Morrel appeared quite calm; he stayed in his study as usual, came down to breakfast as usual, only after his dinner he had his daughter sit near him, took the child's head in his arms and held it long against his chest.

In the evening, Julie said to her mother that, although apparently calm, she had noticed that her father's heart beat violently.

The two other days passed almost alike. On the evening of September 4th, Mr. Morrel asked his daughter again for the key to his study.

Julie started at this request, which seemed sinister to her. Why did her father ask her again for this key which she had always had, and which in her childhood was taken from her only to punish her!

The young girl looked at Mr. Morrel.

"What wrong have I done, my father," she said, "that you take this key from me?"

"Nothing, my child," answered the unhappy Morrel, to whom this so simple request brought tears to his eyes; "nothing, only I need it."

Julie pretended to look for the key.

"I must have left it in my room," she said.

And she went out; but, instead of going to her room, she went down and ran to consult Emmanuel.

"Do not give that key back to your father," said the latter, "and tomorrow morning, if possible, do not leave him."

She tried to question Emmanuel; but he knew nothing else, or would say nothing else.

During the whole night of the 4th to the 5th of September, Mme Morrel kept her ear against the paneling. Until three o'clock in the morning, she heard her husband walk about with agitation in his room.

At three o'clock only, he threw himself on his bed.

The two women spent the night together. Since the evening before, they had been expecting Maximilien.

At eight o'clock, Mr. Morrel entered their room. He was calm, but the agitation of the night was read upon his pale and wasted face.

The women dared not ask him if he had slept well. Morrel was kinder to his wife, and more paternal to his daughter than he had ever been; he could not satiate himself with looking at and kissing the poor child.

Julie remembered Emmanuel's recommendation and wished to follow her father when he went out; but he pushed her back gently:

"Stay near your mother," he said to her.

Julie wished to insist.

"I wish it!" said Morrel.

It was the first time Morrel had said to his daughter: I wish it! but he said it with an accent imbued with such paternal gentleness, that Julie dared not take a step forward.

She remained in the same place, standing, mute and motionless. An instant after, the door opened again, she felt two arms which encircled her and a mouth which pressed upon her forehead.

She raised her eyes and uttered a cry of joy.

"Maximilien, my brother!" she cried.

At this cry Mme Morrel ran up and threw herself into the arms of her son.

"My mother," said the young man, looking alternately at Mme Morrel and his sister; "what is the matter then, and what is happening? Your letter terrified me and I hasten here."

"Julie," said Mme Morrel, making a sign to the young man, "go tell your father that Maximilien has just arrived."

The young girl darted out of the apartment, but, on the first step of the stairs, she found a man holding a letter in his hand.

"Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?" said this man with a most pronounced Italian accent.

"Yes, sir," answered Julie, all stammering; "but what do you want of me? I do not know you."

"Read this letter," said the man, holding out a note to her.

Julie hesitated.

"Your father's salvation is at stake," said the messenger.

The young girl snatched the note from his hands.

Then she opened it quickly and read:

"Go instantly to the Allées de Meilhan, enter house No. 15, ask the concierge for the key to the room on the fifth floor, enter this room, take from the corner of the fireplace a purse of red silk net, and bring this purse to your father.

"It is important that he have it before eleven o'clock.

"You promised to obey me blindly; I remind you of your promise.

"SINBAD THE SAILOR."

The young girl uttered a cry of joy, raised her eyes, sought, to question him, the man who had given her this note, but he had disappeared.

She then turned her eyes back to the note to read it a second time and perceived that it had a postscript.

She read:

"It is important that you fulfill this mission in person and alone; if you came accompanied or if another than you presented herself, the concierge would answer that he does not know what is meant."

This postscript was a powerful correction to the young girl's joy. Had she nothing to fear, was it not some snare laid for her? Her innocence left her ignorant of what dangers a young girl of her age might run, but one need not know the danger to fear it; there is even a thing to remark, namely, that it is precisely the unknown dangers which inspire the greatest terrors.

Julie hesitated, she resolved to ask advice.

But, by a strange feeling, it was neither to her mother nor to her brother that she had recourse, it was to Emmanuel.

She went down, told him what had happened to her the day the agent of the house of Thomson and French had come to her father; she told him the scene on the stairs, repeated the promise she had made, and showed him the letter.

"You must go, mademoiselle," said Emmanuel.

"Go there?" murmured Julie.

"Yes, I will accompany you."

"But you did not see that I am to be alone?" said Julie.

"You will be alone too," answered the young man; "I will wait for you at the corner of the rue du Musée; and if you delay so as to give me some uneasiness, then I will come join you, and, I assure you, woe to those of whom you would tell me you had cause to complain!"

"So, Emmanuel," resumed the young girl, hesitating, "your advice is then that I go to this invitation?"

"Yes; did not the messenger tell you that your father's salvation was at stake?"

"But finally, Emmanuel, what danger is he then running?" asked the young girl.

Emmanuel hesitated an instant, but the desire to decide the young girl with a single blow and without delay prevailed.

"Listen," he said to her, "today is the 5th of September, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Today, at eleven o'clock, your father has nearly three hundred thousand francs to pay."

"Yes, we know it."

"Well," said Emmanuel, "he has not fifteen thousand in the cash desk."

"Then what is going to happen?"

"What is going to happen is that if today, before eleven o'clock, your father has not found someone to come to his aid, at noon your father will be obliged to declare himself bankrupt."

"Oh! come! come!" cried the young girl, dragging the young man with her.

Meanwhile, Mme Morrel had told everything to her son.

The young man knew well that, following the successive misfortunes which had befallen his father, great reforms had been made in the expenses of the house; but he was ignorant that things had come to this point.

He remained overwhelmed. Then suddenly, he darted out of the apartment, rapidly climbed the stairs, for he thought his father was in his study, but he knocked in vain. As he was at the door of that study, he heard that of the apartment open, he turned and saw his father. Instead of going straight back up to his study, Mr. Morrel had re-entered his room and was only now coming out of it.

Mr. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise on seeing Maximilien; he was ignorant of the young man's arrival. He remained motionless in the same place, pressing with his left arm an object which he held hidden under his frock coat.

Maximilien quickly descended the stairs and threw himself on his father's neck; but suddenly he drew back, leaving only his right hand resting on his father's chest.

"My father," he said, turning pale as death, "why do you have a pair of pistols under your frock coat?"

"Oh! that is what I feared!" said Morrel.

"My father! my father! in Heaven's name!" cried the young man, "why these weapons?"

"Maximilien," answered Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, "you are a man, and a man of honor; come, I will tell you."

And Morrel mounted with a firm step to his study, while Maximilien followed him staggering.

Morrel opened the door and closed it behind his son; then he crossed the antechamber, approached the desk, deposited his pistols on the corner of the table, and pointed with the tip of his finger to his son an open ledger.

Upon this ledger was recorded the exact state of the situation.

Morrel had to pay in half an hour two hundred eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs.

He possessed in all fifteen thousand two hundred fifty-seven francs.

"Read," said Morrel.

The young man read and remained a moment as if crushed.

Morrel said not a word: what could he have said that would add to the inexorable verdict of figures?

"And you have done everything, my father," said the young man after an instant, "to meet this misfortune?"

"Yes," answered Morrel.

"You count on no collections?"

"On none."

"You have exhausted all your resources?"

"All."

"And in half an hour," said Maximilien in a gloomy voice, "our name is dishonored. Blood washes away dishonor," said Morrel.

"You are right, my father, and I understand you."

Then, extending his hand toward the pistols:

"There is one for you and one for me," he said; "thanks!"

Morrel arrested his hand.

"And your mother... and your sister... who will feed them?"

A shudder ran through the whole body of the young man.

"My father," he said, "do you reflect that you are telling me to live?"

"Yes, I tell you so," resumed Morrel, "for it is your duty; you have a calm, strong mind, Maximilien... Maximilien, you are not an ordinary man; I command you nothing, I order you nothing, only I tell you: Examine your situation as if you were a stranger to it, and judge it yourself."

The young man reflected an instant, then an expression of sublime resignation passed into his eyes; only he removed, with a slow and sad movement, his epaulette and his contra-epaulette, insignia of his rank.

"It is well," he said, extending his hand to Morrel, "die in peace, my father! I will live."

Morrel made a movement to throw himself at his son's knees. Maximilien drew him to him, and these two noble hearts beat an instant against each other.

"You know there is no fault of mine?" said Morrel.

Maximilien smiled.

"I know, my father, that you are the most honest man I have ever known."

"It is well, all is said: now return to your mother and sister."

"My father," said the young man, bending his knee, "bless me!"

Morrel seized his son's head between his two hands, drew it to him, and, imprinting his lips upon it several times:

"Oh! yes, yes," he said, "I bless you in my name and in the name of three generations of irreproachable men; listen then to what they say through my voice: the edifice which misfortune has destroyed, Providence can rebuild. In seeing me dead by such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you; to you perhaps they will give the time which they would have refused me; then strive that the infamous word be not pronounced; set yourself to work, labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously: live, you, your mother and your sister, on the strict necessaries, so that, day by day, the property of those to whom I owe may increase and bear fruit in your hands. Think that it will be a beautiful day, a great day, a solemn day, that of rehabilitation, the day when, in this same study, you will say: My father died because he could not do what I do today; but he died tranquil and calm, because he knew in dying that I would do it."

"Oh! my father, my father!" cried the young man, "if however you could live!"

"If I live, all changes; if I live, interest changes into doubt, pity into ferocity; if I live, I am no longer but a man who has failed his word, who has fallen short of his engagements, I am no longer but a bankrupt, in short. If I die, on the contrary, think of it, Maximilien, my corpse is no longer but that of an honest man unfortunate. Living, my best friends avoid my house; dead, all Marseille follows me weeping to my last dwelling; living, you are ashamed of my name; dead, you raise your head and you say:

"'I am the son of him who killed himself, because, for the first time, he was forced to fail his word.'"

The young man uttered a groan, but he appeared resigned. It was the second time that conviction entered, not into his heart, but into his mind.

"And now," said Morrel, "leave me alone and try to keep the women away."

"Do you not wish to see my sister again?" asked Maximilien.

A last and muffled hope was hidden for the young man in this interview, that is why he proposed it. Mr. Morrel shook his head.

"I saw her this morning," he said, "and I bade her farewell."

"Have you no particular recommendation to make me, my father?" asked Maximilien in an altered voice.

"Yes, my son, a sacred recommendation."

"Say it, my father."

"The house of Thomson and French is the only one which, by humanity, by selfishness perhaps, but it is not for me to read in men's hearts, has had pity on me. Its agent, he who, in ten minutes, will present himself to collect the amount of a draft of two hundred eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs, I will not say has granted me, but has offered me three months. Let this house be repaid the first, my son, let this man be sacred to you."

"Yes, my father," said Maximilien.

"And now once more adieu," said Morrel, "go, go, I need to be alone; you will find my will in the secretary of my bedroom."

The young man remained standing, inert, having only a force of will, but no execution.

"Listen, Maximilien," said his father, "suppose that I am a soldier like you, that I have received the order to carry a redoubt, and that you know that I must be killed in carrying it, would you not say to me what you said to me just now: 'Go, my father, for you dishonor yourself in remaining, and death is better than shame!'"

"Yes, yes," said the young man, "yes."

And, convulsively pressing Morrel in his arms:

"Go, my father," he said.

And he darted out of the study.

When his son was gone, Morrel remained an instant standing, his eyes fixed on the door; then he stretched out his hand, found the cord of a bell and rang.

At the end of an instant, Coclès appeared.

It was no longer the same man; these three days of conviction had broken him. The thought: the house of Morrel is going to cease its payments, bowed him toward the earth more than would have done twenty other years upon his head.

"My good Coclès," said Morrel with an accent whose expression it would be impossible to render, "you will remain in the antechamber. When that gentleman who already came three months ago, you know, the agent of the house of Thomson and French, shall come, you will announce him."

Coclès answered not; he made a sign with his head, went to sit in the antechamber and waited.

Morrel fell back on his chair; his eyes turned toward the clock: he had seven minutes left, that was all; the hand moved with an incredible rapidity; it seemed to him that he saw it go.

What then passed, and in that supreme moment in the mind of this man who, still young, following a reasoning perhaps false but at least specious, was going to separate from all he loved in the world and quit a life which had for him all the sweetness of family, is impossible to express: one would have needed to see, to form an idea of it, his forehead covered with sweat, and yet resigned, his eyes wet with tears, and yet raised to heaven.

The hand moved always, the pistols were fully loaded; he stretched out his hand, took one, and murmured his daughter's name.

Then he laid down the deadly weapon, took the pen and wrote a few words.

It seemed to him then that he had not said enough farewell to his cherished child.

Then he turned toward the clock; he no longer counted by minutes but by seconds.

He took up the weapon again, his mouth half open and his eyes fixed on the hand; then he started at the noise he made himself in cocking the hammer.

At this moment, a colder sweat passed over his brow, a more deadly anguish gripped his heart.

He heard the door of the stairs creak on its hinges.

Then opened that of his study.

The clock was about to strike eleven.

Morrel did not turn; he awaited those words from Coclès: "The agent of the house of Thomson and French."

And he raised the weapon to his mouth....

Suddenly, he heard a cry: it was his daughter's voice.

He turned and perceived Julie; the pistol escaped from his hands.

"My father!" cried the young girl, breathless and almost dying of joy, "saved! you are saved!"

And she threw herself into his arms, raising in her hand a purse of red silk net.

"Saved! my child!" said Morrel; "what do you mean?"

"Yes, saved! see, see!" said the young girl.

Morrel took the purse and started, for a vague memory recalled this object to him as having belonged to him. On one side was the draft of two hundred eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs.

The draft was paid.

On the other, was a diamond the size of a hazelnut, with these three words written on a small piece of parchment: "Julie's dowry."

Morrel passed his hand over his forehead. He thought he was dreaming. At this moment, the clock struck eleven.

The bell vibrated for him as if each stroke of the steel hammer vibrated upon his own heart.

"Come, my child," he said, "explain yourself. Where did you find this purse?"

"In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of the fireplace of a poor little room on the fifth floor."

"But," cried Morrel, "this purse is not yours."

Julie held out to her father the letter she had received in the morning.

"And you were alone in that house?" said Morrel after having read.

"Emmanuel accompanied me, my father. He was to wait for me at the corner of the rue du Musée; but, strange thing, on my return he was no longer there."

"Mr. Morrel!" cried a voice on the stairs, "Mr. Morrel!"

"It is his voice," said Julie.

At the same time, Emmanuel entered, his face distraught with joy and emotion.

"The Pharaon!" he cried; "the Pharaon!"

"Well, what? the Pharaon! are you mad, Emmanuel? You know well it is lost."

"The Pharaon! sir, they signal the Pharaon; the Pharaon is entering the port."

Morrel fell back on his chair, strength failed him, his mind refused to classify this sequence of incredible, unheard-of, fabulous events.

But his son entered in his turn.

"My father," cried Maximilien, "what did you say then that the Pharaon was lost? The lookout has signaled it, and it is entering the port."

"My friends," said Morrel, "if that were so, one would have to believe in a miracle of God! Impossible! impossible!"

But what was real and no less incredible, was this purse which he held in his hands, was this bill of exchange paid, was this magnificent diamond.

"Ah! sir," said Coclès in his turn, "what does this mean, the Pharaon?"

"Come, my children," said Morrel, raising himself, "come let us see, and may God have pity on us, if it is a false report."

They went down; at the middle of the stairs awaited Mme Morrel: the poor woman had not dared to go up.

In an instant they were at the Canebière.

There was a crowd on the port.

All this crowd opened before Morrel.

"The Pharaon! the Pharaon!" said all those voices.

Indeed, a marvelous, unheard-of thing, facing the Tour Saint-Jean a vessel, bearing on its stern these words written in white letters, the Pharaon (Morrel and son of Marseille), absolutely of the appearance of the other Pharaon, and laden like the other with cochineal and indigo, cast anchor and furled its sails; on the deck, Captain Gaumard gave his orders, and master Penelon made signs to Mr. Morrel.

There was no longer room to doubt: the testimony of the senses was there, and ten thousand persons came to aid this testimony.

As Morrel and his son embraced on the jetty, amid the applause of the whole city witness of this prodigy, a man whose face was half covered by a black beard, and who, hidden behind a sentinel's box, contemplated this scene with emotion, murmured these words:

"Be happy, noble heart; be blessed for all the good you have done and will yet do; and may my gratitude remain in shadow like your benefaction."

And, with a smile where joy and happiness were revealed, he left the shelter where he was hidden, and without anyone paying attention to him, so much was each preoccupied with the event of the day, he descended one of those little staircases which serve as landing-places and hailed three times:

"Jacopo! Jacopo! Jacopo!"

Then, a shallop came to him, received him aboard, and conducted him to a richly rigged yacht, upon the deck of which he sprang with the lightness of a sailor; from there he looked yet once more at Morrel who, weeping with joy, distributed cordial handshakes to all that crowd, and thanked with a vague glance that unknown benefactor whom he seemed to seek in heaven.

"And now," said the unknown man, "farewell kindness, recognized humanity... farewell to all the sentiments which expand the heart!... I have substituted myself for Providence to reward the good... let the avenging God yield me his place to punish the wicked!"

At these words, he made a signal, and, as if he had awaited only that signal to depart, the yacht immediately put to sea.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”